My phone buzzed, and I checked the notification. Another emergency at the resort. Something about a mechanical issue with the chairlift. The last thing we needed when we were trying to attract guests was skiers stranded in mid-air.
“I have to get back. Let me know if there are any issues with the setup for your event. If you can’t reach me, contact my assistant, Valerie.”
“Will do!” David lifted a hand in a wave, but paused, noticing the open window and fallen flour canister. He frowned. “What happened here? Wait—If my daughter was involved, I don’t want to know. I’ll get a broom.”
By the time I’d put on my jacket and exited the tea shop, both Suzanne and Sage were nowhere to be found. I shivered inside my coat as snowflakes pelted me in the face. The weather forecast had predicted sun, but any snow would be good for the slopes and save us from having to run the snow cannons. From a cost standpoint, I’d take all the white fluffy stuff I could get.
Tourist season wasn’t in full swing, and the drive to the lodge was short. After Thanksgiving would be the real test to see if the resort could draw in the crowds as it had in the past.
Since securing the property, I’d sunk my own funds into updating structural defects and worked hard to bring the place up to code. So far, it had been nothing but a money pit drenched in rustic charm. But I was counting on that specific brand of charm to pay dividends.
Even sitting beneath storm clouds, the main building was a sight to see. Timber and natural stone framed the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the snow-capped mountains. The resort grounds were dotted with flagstone fire pits and snowshoe trails, and a wraparound deck boasted an oversized hot tub.
Currently, the lodge had twenty-three boutique guest rooms—twenty-two if you didn’t count the one I’d been living out of since I arrived back in Cold Spell—and if everything went accordingly; I had plans for expansion.
But first, we needed guests.
The resort had floundered the last few seasons, losing traction to some of the larger, more modern hotels. It also didn’t help that we had a tricky public relations issue. Sage wasn’t wrong when she accused a developer of stripping the charm from our small town. It just wasn’t me.
Two years ago, my father’s company brokered a deal that closed one of the town’s historical landmarks so he could put in a parking lot. Another deal shuttered the local ice skating rink and the surrounding park. They’re building luxury condos there now.
I’d been overseas while my father sacrificed the town’s character for profit. When I returned home, I wasn’t the most welcome man in Cold Spell.
Scrooge himself would have fared better.
Everyone was waiting for the bulldozers to arrive. They certainly weren’t lining up to buy lift tickets or enjoying the newly renovated guest rooms with working fireplaces. I was merely an extension of my father, trying to squeeze the last bit of money out of the lodge before I tore down another cherished landmark.
No one believed I had other intentions. The irony was, I only had one shot at this. I had enough money for this season, and if I failed, the resort would end up on another developer’s chopping block.
The snow had tapered off as I climbed the wide stone steps leading into the lodge. Valerie, my assistant, greeted me in the lobby, a two-way radio clipped to her hip and a coffee tumbler clutched in her hand.
She was fresh out of college and the only one I’d interviewed who hadn’t blocked my number when they learned the salary. Valerie was also a lifesaver, keeping me organized and on schedule. There wasn’t anything she couldn’t fix with a spreadsheet and caffeine. Well—except for my current reputation.
“Let me read your schedule for the day,” Valerie said, keeping pace with me as we walked through the spacious lobby. “You have a meeting with the contractor in an hour, a wine delivery at noon, and there’s a staff meeting at three. I also texted you about the broken chairlift. The mechanic is working on it as we speak.”
“Any new reservations?”
Valerie dodged the question and tried to distract me by tossing a freshly baked muffin from our complimentary coffee station in my direction.
“Have you tried one of these yet? They’re fantastic. Hiring the Bennetts to provide baked goods from their shop was genius. Now if we could only figure out how to get people in here to eat them.” She grabbed a muffin for herself and refilled her tumbler. “By the way, how did you get the Bennetts on our side?”
“They needed the money. I’m sure they attended the town meeting disguised as a Grayson roast, like everyone else.”
“Gotcha.” Valerie made a sympathetic face.
I leaned against the coffee station and noted the vacant reservation desk on the other side of the lobby. The clerk had his elbows on the counter, playing a game on his phone. At least he wasn’t sleeping.
“Do you have that list of influencers? We should start with one of them. Our budget is pretty much non-existent, but we could have them hold another company’s product while standing in front of our mountain. We wouldn’t have to pay full price for that.”
Valerie snickered and scrolled through her phone. “I don’t think that’s how it works. Nice try, though. Forget influencers for the moment. What you need is a local. Someone who can help you make inroads with the community. We need to change the town’s perception of you.”
“It can’t be that bad. Sure, there’s the history with my father, but I grew up here. They know me.”
“Theyknewyou. A lot of time has passed and recent memories overshadow old ones. Not to freak you out, but the other day, people in line at the grocery store mentioned the word boycott.”
I cringed. Boycott was bad.
“Do you know any locals who would work within our pitiful budget? Better yet, for free?” I joked, taking a bite of the muffin. It was delicious. Freshly baked this morning with extra blueberries and a sugar-crusted top. Our rivals used pre-packaged pastries. They definitely didn’t source local coffee beans.
